


hero-adjacent

by notimeforemotion



Series: a spectacular sort of whiplash [1]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV Merlin, i just have very strong feelings about merlin okay, spoilers for TGC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 04:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12473568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notimeforemotion/pseuds/notimeforemotion
Summary: The thing about Kingsman is that they do their best to train the fear right out of you.





	hero-adjacent

The thing about Kingsman is that they do their best to train the fear right out of you. 

They don’t say it like that, mention it outright, but there’s nothing more obvious in Kingsman training than that. Train out the fear, the uncertainty, the reaction to things that’ll make you lose your stomach in the middle of the mission. Train out anything that can and will make an agent finch, and make sure that a counselor is on hand when the plane touches down after. A weird sort of “act first, apologize later”, but highly sensitive missions require agents who are impervious to anything.

As a handler, Merlin is well aware that anything means _anything_. 

He doesn’t think about his training anymore, the years so far gone, but he remembers spots of brilliance. Not much has changed, even if the way that they go about it has. Don’t have air? Make yourself some. Chute’s dead? Cling to someone else and hope like hell you don’t lose your grip.

Shoot the dog?

Close your eyes if you must.

(Clearly they need to work on the critical thinking skills a bit more though, Merlin thinks, because there is no way Arthur would let the brain matter of a dog get all over his nice sitting room carpet. Eggsy had it closest, turning the gun on Arthur, but Merlin doubts Arthur would’ve let him pass based on that.)

The aftermath of the failed V-Day massacre is, well, still a massacre. Not on the scale that Valentine had hoped, but a massacre nonetheless. Eggsy had done his work with ruthless precision, his tie his only casualty, and when he collapses back into his seat on the plane he’s shaking. Roxy’s in the same sort of state when they get her, and Merlin’s two youngest protégé’s sit in the same chair talking quietly the entire way back to Kingsman HQ.

It’s going to be a holy mess when they get back, haven’t even sorted out the Galahad thing properly ( _Harry’s dead he’s dead he’s dead_ ), but at least they’re here.

He swallows against the bile in his throat, turning autopilot on as he leans back in the pilot’s chair. He takes off his glasses, rubs a hand over his face.

Somehow, they’re all still here.

 

-

 

Eggsy is rugged in a way that Roxy is not. Lancelot slices into her missions as fine as a scalpel, preferring to get in and out without alerting many people to her presence—if any. She’s quiet, she’s tiny, and she makes more use of air vents more than any agent Merlin has seen in his entire career. 

Galahad is rough, a blast of energy, a “keep it quiet until he inevitably makes some sort of noise and then rough the place up”. He doesn’t take any joy in killing, as far as Merlin can tell ( _Harry trained him well_ ), but there’s enough force in every punch that Merlin would hardly be surprised if Eggsy were imagining his deceased stepfather with every swing of his arm.

The missions they’re sent on together guarantee at least a minimum amount of clean up, afterwards. Arthur’s seat still sits empty so the remaining agents take their turn delegating the clean-up crew, and somehow Merlin seems to be on the more extravagant ones. A massive two-storey-wide hole in the side of a building in Mumbai as Eggsy and Roxy are lifted away, dangling from a helicopter, numerous civilians on the ground injured at best. Half of a street in Paris collapses after a mishap in the catacombs which neither of them will claim but Eggsy’s shit-eating grin is as good a hint as any.

It’s why Merlin doesn’t feel terrible when Eggsy’s only way out of Waypoint Swan is the sewer. His chuckle comes out a little vindictive—but, well, Eggsy’s had it coming for a while now. Merlin’s not going to feel sorry for him (at least, that’s what he says now, but tomorrow he’ll be slipping Eggsy the card for Harry’s dry-cleaner during the debrief).

“Just how important is that dinner?” Merlin asks.

Eggsy sighs. “Let me show you.”

He doesn’t even take his glasses off, the wanker. Merlin shuts off his feed, assuming that Eggsy will get a hold of him in case he starts to drown in shit or something. He opens up a program on the clipboard, fingers resting on the screen for a minute, and then starts typing.

The Charlie Hesketh problem seems to be solved, but there’s a _for now_ tacked onto it that Merlin just can’t shake.

 

-

 

The debrief doesn’t solve anything. Everyone is on the same page now, but all they’ve got to play with are a few pieces that are nowhere close to completing the puzzle. When Merlin was a child, he and his mother would do puzzles by the light of fire as the winter winds howled around their home. “You’ll want to get the outside first, then work your way in,” she’d told him, and Merlin’s fingers had been steady even then but he couldn’t see the puzzle. Not the way his mother could.

“Corner pieces are your best friend,” she would continue when Merlin would huff in frustration. “Start with them—there’s only four—and then work your way around, one at a time.”

The pieces they’ve got are Charlie Hesketh, a mechanical arm that Merlin had recovered from Waypoint Swan and seems, for all intents and purposes, inoperable, and an organization that tattoos their people in 24 karat gold. 

Merlin doesn’t think he’s got a single outside piece, never mind a corner. He’s looking at a bunch of inside pieces, and the way that they link together and the thing that surrounds them all remain just out of reach.

 

-

 

He’s not too sure what wakes him. A pulse from his watch, maybe. A blink from his glasses disturbing the darkness of his room. Merlin gropes around for the light, jumping when his hand bumps into the arm he’d brought home with him, and checks his watch, but there’s not a message there. He slips on his glasses, but there’s no one on the other end of the line.

Which is—odd, actually. Usually there’s someone, at some place in the world, that’s got their glasses on.

Merlin swallows thickly. He grabs the clipboard, never too far away just for moment’s like this. He punches his passcode into the screen—a sixteen-digit monstrosity that he changes whenever he gets bored or paranoid that Eggsy’s figured it out—and there’s only one word flashing across the screen.

DOOMSDAY.

 

-

 

The Mansion—gone. 

News reports are starting to roll in of “gas explosions” all over the UK. None of them seem to be coordinating, or thinking that they’re related. Not yet, at least. Right now they’re worried about putting the fires out, trying to figure out how many causalities there are. He knows every single address that pops up in the Breaking News rolling headline at the bottom of the screen, because he’s had those addresses memorized for _years_.

Christmas at Lamorak’s one year, where Bors had gotten hilariously pissed. A memorable New Year’s Eve party at Gawain’s, which they all swore that they’d never speak of again because if Arthur had copped on to the shit they’d gotten up to they would’ve had _issues_. Percival had hosted Harry’s wake, and Merlin had imbibed so much he’d vomited in the garden. Tristan had rubbed his back as they both ignored the tears.

Merlin stayed in the spare room the first night that Eggsy occupied Harry’s house. “It’s too quiet,” Eggsy said as they sat at the table, an untouched dinner spread out in front of them. “It’s too quiet, and he’s everywhere, and I can’t—”

“I know, lad,” Merlin had replied, and he had. He still does.

Merlin paces. The cup of tea he’d made sits untouched on the kitchen counter because he’s too restless to sit and relax and drink it. Eggsy’s house is the closest, only on the other side of the city, and Merlin’s just biding his time until the authorities clear out for the night but he’s not too sure he wants to go. He doesn’t know what he’s going to find.

For now, he’s all alone. For now, as far as he knows, he’s the last of the Kingsman.

Midnight turns one turns two turns three. Merlin does what he can from his house—and the fucking arm had done it, of course, why else would Charlie want in the cab—Merlin changes from his bedclothes back into his sweater and shirt and trousers. The knot at his throat is a reassurance, settling his shoulders. He’s been trained for this.

Galahad’s house first. He has a job to do.

 

-

 

Eggsy’s hand is steady. Merlin doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, undoubtedly ruining his shoes at the very least, but his hand is steady as he points the gun at Merlin. Merlin’s a little impressed, because Eggsy’s other hand is trembling like a leaf at his side and his entire body is coiled up tight as a spring as he waits for Merlin’s answer to what he’s charged against him.

“You think I would?” Merlin asks quietly, irked but not surprised, and then he pulls the arm out. Charlie Hesketh’s arm. Eggsy looks at it with wide eyes as Merlin lays it out for him, how they were hacked, how there’s something bigger going on and Merlin tries not to be frustrated at how he doesn’t have any more puzzle pieces than he did before everything blew up because now he has _less_.

He brings Eggsy back to his, brews up some more tea. Eggsy sits at his kitchen table, tea sloshing up against the edge of his cup as he holds it, and once his breathing resembles something normal he says, “Roxy said—” before clamming right up.

Merlin pauses in his doing the dishes. There’s not many, but it’s something to keep his hands busy. “Roxy said?”

Eggsy swallows so thick Merlin hears it. “She said that Charlie’s goons all had the gold tattoo on them. They’re part of a drug cartel, or something.”

The golden circle grows bigger. The inner puzzle pieces are coming together a little more, but Merlin doesn’t have any sort of outline. “You’re saying a drug cartel is responsible for all of this?” Merlin says carefully, looking at Eggsy over his shoulder.

Eggsy shrugs. He’s wearing one of Merlin’s old t-shirts, suit hanging somewhere where it will be fine until…they get to it. “I dunno, bruv, she just said they were connected and not much else after that.”

His tone bites at the raw part of Merlin’s soul. They’ve lost too much. They’re the only ones left. There’s no way they can recover from this—well, one way, maybe, but what if the Doomsday protocol isn’t enough? “Finish your tea and go up to bed, Eggsy,” Merlin says. “The spare room’s all made up.”

“What about you?” Eggsy says, swirling his tea around in his cup.

“Don’t worry about me.”

“You need sleep too, Merlin.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow at him. Eggsy throws back the rest of his tea and stands. He looks dead on his feet, and Merlin can’t imagine he looks much better himself. “Yeah, alright,” Eggsy says. “See you in the morning.”

Merlin nods, grabs his cup when he’s out of the kitchen, and puts it in the sink. Then he grabs the counter and squeezes his eyes shut and breathes.

 

-

 

He doesn’t mean to drink so much, but for an American whiskey it is _damn_ good.

Maybe it’s the trauma of the past twenty-four hours that help lower his inhibitions, bring him to the place where alcohol—any alcohol—is better than none. There’s also no telling as to how long the whiskey has even been in the safe, and as a result how much the aging process has helped it along.

Whatever. Merlin’s not going to complain.

( _Drink_ )

Tasting Room 3 is cold and damp and nothing like Fitting Room 3 back at the shop, the shop that’s no longer there anymore ( _drink_ ). The shop where there was an underground entrance to the shuttle, which would get you to the Mansion which is no longer there anymore ( _drink_ ) and if you were lucky you could get down and out before Arthur was even aware of your presence and therefore didn’t have any time to invite you for a cuppa and regale you with tales from any good old international conflict ( _drink_ ).

He takes a shuddering breath, and then another. “Merlin?” Eggsy asks, eyes a little far away but not so far gone he’s completely out of it yet. “You okay?”

Merlin holds up his glass. “Let’s have another one, lad.”

“Who for this time?”

_For the Knights—all of them. For the years that we had under our belts, the familiarity and ease with each other. For those who will never realize what’s been lost. For the fact that I have no idea what the fuck to do now, but you expect me to._

_For the fear I feel._

“Merlin?” Eggsy says, tilting his head slightly as he squints his eyes. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, but his voice cracks, and his hands are shaking and there’s something welling up inside of him and breaking out and _no don’t hold it in stop_ —

Too late.

“It’s all my fault,” he sobs. “I should’ve seen it coming.”

“Nah, bruv, it’s not your fault,” Eggsy replies. He keeps Merlin from pouring another glass for himself—probably for the best, honestly, even though Scotland is as good a reason to drink as any—and as Merlin dries his eyes something about the bottle catches Eggsy’s eye. Eggsy holds the bottle out to him and pretends to see what Eggsy sees, but his eyes are still too blurry and with the alcohol and the tears it’s difficult to focus.

Eggsy insists that they need to go to Kentucky, though—Kentucky, where the hate church was, where Harry—but he’s got this fiery sort of determination in his voice, so Merlin acquiesces.

It’s not like they’ve got much else to go on.

 

-

 

America has never really surprised Merlin. He doesn’t know what he ever expected of America or her people therein to begin with, but he has never been surprised by America.

That the Statesman empire is run entirely by alcohol and merchandising sales is not surprising.

That the man who corners them has a cowboy hat and a belt buckle in the shape of a flask is not surprising.

That he pours whiskey—not as good as scotch, but will do in a pinch—all over them when he’s got them tied to a couple of chairs is not surprising.

That he doesn’t believe they are who they say they are, even when the desperation starts to leak into their voices (though neither Eggsy nor Merlin would ever admit it) is not surprising.

When Harry appears on the other side of that two-way mirror—well.

That’s surprising.

 

-

 

Even with Merlin and Ginger’s combined wit and theories and logic, they cannot put Humpty Dumpty back together again. It had never been Merlin’s favourite tale when he was a child but he wishes now more than ever that it wasn’t so hard hitting. So blatantly honest.

All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.

Not that he’d ever have the gall to call Harry Hart _Humpty Dumpty_ to his face. Merlin has a fraction of a self-preservation instinct, at least, untouched by the years that Kingsman has built onto him.

It’s frustrating. He’s never felt so helpless—not when all he had to go on was a bottle in a safe, not when the DOOMSDAY flashed across his life, not when Arthur’s treason was discovered, not when Harry first, well. Ended up mostly dead.

Brain injuries are fickle things, but Ginger has fixed these before and no one knows Harry better than Merlin. Eggsy might’ve gotten close someday, but the familiarity is something borne of years working together and setting off fireworks on Guy Fawkes day when they think they can more or less get away with it and Eggsy has only scratched the surface. So to not have this work, for the water to not be successful, to see the options running low and time running out—

There are very few problems Merlin hasn’t solved before.

Ginger gives him a number, and then some privacy. He doesn’t want to dial it, and that’s what ultimately gets his fingers moving. He wants Harry to get better, to get normal, but Harry thinks he is normal. Harry thinks he is normal, and he wants to go home to his mother ( _deceased, stroke, 2004_ ) and his butterflies ( _mere ashes in the rubble left behind_ ).

A click as the call is answered.  “Yes, hello,” he says when prompted. “I’d like to arrange for a pickup.”

“When and where at?”

Merlin gives the address of Statesman’s main building, asks for a pick up the next morning. His voice only shakes a little as he does it.

Maybe he was foolish to think that he could solve Harry Hart.

 

-

 

Merlin’s not the hero, and he doesn’t mind. He’s more comfortable behind a screen and a keyboard than he ever thought he’d be, opening doors and cracking codes and making sure that his agents get their jobs done. Ginger’s got this restlessness about her that’s got the makings of a good agent, Statesman or Kinsgman or otherwise, at its root, and he knows it’s only a matter of time for her.

He’s not the hero, and he’s never considered himself to be the hero; he prefers “hero-adjacent”, in all honesty. Some of the best days had been before he was training, when he was just a voice in agent’s ears. He’d talked Harry through a dozen missions before they met, two years after the first one, and Harry had said, “Of course you’re bloody bald,” before gripping his hand as tightly as he possibly could.

He doesn’t mind hanging back as they gallivant off to Glasto; music festivals were never really his thing, anyways. Book fairs—oh, he remembers travelling far and wide for book fairs, first around the UK and then more into the mainland when he was in college and had the time. Music festivals? A type of rowdy he doesn’t appreciate like Eggsy does.

Eggsy, who is a mess of emotion when they come back, Whiskey shrugging as Eggsy storms past everyone towards Harry’s room. Merlin turns after him and barely gets a hand on his shoulder, stopping the lad before he storms in and startles Harry. “Eggsy,” Merlin says quietly. “Before you go in there—”

“He’s not normal yet, is he?” Eggsy asks, voice thin.

He’s not looking Merlin in the eye, something that concerns him, but Merlin still says slowly, “No, he’s not.”

“I want to go see him.”

“He’s leaving, Eggsy.”

Eggsy hasn’t moved at all since Merlin stopped him, but a disconcerting stillness comes over him. “What was that, guv?”

Merlin sighs. “Ginger says that a traumatic memory usually snaps them back to it. We tried the water test, and—” _the absolute panic on Harry’s face when his instincts didn’t kick in and he didn’t remember and he couldn’t breathe_ “—it didn’t work. There’s nothing more that we can do. A cab is coming to collect him in the morning, and it’ll take him to a plane that will get him back to London.”

Eggsy’s brow pinches. “And then what?”

“You’ve got to let him go, Eggsy.”

“No,” Eggsy says, jaw working, and finally meets Merlin’s eye. “I’m not—I can’t give up on him. There’s so much wrong, I just—I can’t, Merlin. I—I can’t.”

There’s something Eggsy isn’t telling him, but Merlin isn’t going to prod on a bruise that Eggsy doesn’t want him to pay attention to. He nods towards the door that Harry’s behind. “It probably won’t work."

Eggsy is already walking towards the door. “Yeah, well, he took a chance on me, so I’m going to keep taking a chance on him.”

The door closes behind him with a quiet snick. Merlin doesn’t go into the observation room, and he doesn’t want to. If Eggsy doesn’t sort it out, no plane is going to be able to get Harry Hart far enough from his awareness of him.

 

-

 

Eggsy doesn’t figure it out the first time, but he storms back under an hour later with whiskey on his breath and a puppy in his arms. “Harry’s sleeping,” Ginger starts, but Merlin lays a hand on her arm, stopping the sentence in its tracks. Damn the water test—if anything gets to Harry, it’ll be this, and Merlin’s a little irritated Eggsy’s the one that thought of it first but, at the same time, he’s not surprised.

“Let him,” Merlin says, and they step into the observation room just as Harry sits up, startled as the lights come up.

Eggsy didn’t pass the dog test. Harry did, but it never really left him behind.

Ginger can’t watch, turning away when Eggsy pulls the gun out, pointing it evenly at the pup. Merlin’s unable to look away, fascinated and hopeful, and when Harry shouts, “It was a blank! _It was a fucking blank_ ,” and Eggsy’s shouting, “Yes, Harry!” over top of him Merlin takes a breath so deep he swears it adds five years to his life.

 

-

 

It’s not all better, of course.

Harry starts a brawl—almost. His voice is lost as Whiskey takes care of his compatriots, asking Merlin _what’s wrong with me_ and _how long_ and Merlin tries to give him answers but he’s not even persuaded by the half-answers that he’s giving. Harry just needs more _time_.

But then Poppy Adams bursts into their lives, and time is the last thing they have.

 

-

 

Italy is almost a complete write off. Almost. 

Merlin’s still not too sure what happened up in the Alps. He and Ginger do their magic from Kentucky, but beyond that he can do no more than sit and wait and so he makes himself a cup of tea. It’s not as good as his tea back home but it’ll do in a pinch, and he drinks it calmly as Ginger wears a path in the floor from her pacing.

“How aren’t you worried?” she demands. “If I was just out there, at least I would know—”

“How you could help,” Merlin finishes for her. “I know. But sometimes, even in the field, this is as good as it gets. Sometimes you have to wait. Sometimes knowing doesn’t equal helping. Sometimes it’s better not to know.”

He pushes a cup towards her. She sighs, makes one more route, and then comes over to him and takes it.

There’s a tranquil sort of peace that comes before everything falls to shit. Merlin tries to enjoy it when he can.

 

-

 

Harry’s tense, Eggsy is cursing up a storm, and Whiskey’s having his brain weaved back together.

Merlin is not too sure _exactly_ what happened. Eggsy had said that Whiskey got caught in the crossfire, but every time he looks at Harry something dangerously close to _resentment_ flies across his face which is something that Merlin never thought he would see. He pulls Harry into the hall outside where Whiskey is getting treated, and when Eggsy walks away to take a call he asks, “What the hell happened up there?”

Harry has always chosen his words carefully. “I shot Whiskey.”

“What?”

“He was going to get us killed.”

Eggsy flies back to them, a thunderous panic on his face. “Where are we going?”

Merlin’s head spins from the change in direction, but he cuts one look at Harry before he says, “Cambodia. Why—”

“I’m leaving now.”

His tone brokers no room for argument. Merlin wants to, desperately, wants to know what Eggsy’s managed to keep from him, hide within the whirlwind of _golden circle_ and _Poppy Adams_ and _Harry lives_ but he looks at Harry, and Harry nods.

They climb into the elevator together, leaving Statesman behind.

 

-

 

Merlin doesn’t listen in on Harry and Eggsy’s conversation while he’s in the cockpit, making sure the plane stays on course, because that would be terribly rude. It’s the first time alone that they’ve had together since Harry woke up proper, and as mentor-mentee Merlin suspects that they need it.

So he keeps the plane steady and straight, pointing true, hero-adjacent. They’ve gone over the plan, and he knows his role, but he’s not too keen to change from his cardigan into the suit of a Kingsman. It’s not that he feels like he’s a fraud—when there’s only three of them left, he’s among the best that Kingsman has.

It’s been a long time since he was out in the field, and he will go because he needs to, but he would rather be behind the computer. Supporting them in the best way he knows how.

When he steps out wearing the suit, Eggsy grins impishly. “Looking good, Merlin,” he says, cheeky, as Harry looks cluelessly back and forth between them.

Merlin swallows back his nerves and smiles back. “Feeing good, Eggsy.”

 

-

 

It’s easy to land the plane. Too easy, perhaps. The mountains of Cambodia offer few places to land, but Poppy’s need to have her people come to her makes her fairly accessible if one knows where to look, and Merlin’s made a career out of knowing where to look.

It’s not too bad of a hike, though Merlin’s legs are burning by the time Poppyland is in sight. They go over the plan one more time, nodding at each other, and then Eggsy takes a step.

The snick of a landmine being triggered makes Merlin’s heart seize. He, Harry, and Eggsy, all look down, but they already know. He already knows.

 _Grenade!_ Lee Unwin shouts in his memory, and one quick glance at Eggsy tells Merlin the boy isn’t going anywhere. Not willingly. He’s _shockedexasperatedscared_ but also resigned and that’s no good. No good at all. Merlin’s hands are steady as he grabs the spray, as he calmly and quietly explains what’s going to happen, even as his heart rockets in his chest.

 _Remember your training_ , he thinks.

“On the count of three,” he says, and Eggsy’s eyes are wide and he doesn’t suspect a thing. “One…two…”

Eggsy’s eyes close, the moment Merlin was waiting for, and with one quick movement he’s got Eggsy three feet away and his own foot on the mine.

“Merlin,” Eggsy whispers harshly, heart breaking in his throat, “what the fuck have you done?”

The thing about Kingsman is that they do their best to train the fear right out of you.


End file.
